


Heartbeat

by FinalSolution



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, I Blame Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 06:01:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinalSolution/pseuds/FinalSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had assuredly caused John enough pain; if he had at first doubted it, he had, in the last forty-eight hours, had substantial evidence from those around him to prove it. How could he begin to apologize, to even try to make up for it? Worse, what if John didn’t want his apologies? Perhaps it had been better to remain dead and forgotten. The rest of the world had - forgotten him, that was - and Sherlock had no reason not to believe John may have as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartbeat

**Author's Note:**

> Unless you live under a rock, you're probably aware that new teaser footage for series three was released earlier today. This was the result, after I finished screaming and crying along with everyone else.

A heartbeat was a sure sign that you were alive. There were other signs, of course. Respiratory function, acting on autopilot, pulling oxygen into your lungs and expelling the carbon dioxide in exchange; trading out the bad for the good. The biting sensation of a cold wind on the surface of your skin. A laugh shared with someone you care about. But first, you had to have a heartbeat.

Sherlock could hear his very clearly, a steady, rhythmic drumming noise that pulsed in his ears; it nearly drowned out the din of everything else surrounding him. Not only could he hear it so plainly, but he could feel it. As of that moment, he had counted one hundred and twenty beats per minute - one hundred and twenty rapid, adrenaline-fueled beats, sending his blood surging, pumping very noticeably in his chest.

It wasn’t hard to zone in on John, even in a crowded restaurant; as soon as Sherlock had entered and pulled off his coat (with slightly less flourish than what he would have done previously), his eyes had fallen onto the ex-soldier almost instantly. Time had changed him, Sherlock saw, but not much. He was obviously still trying his luck in the dating world - he really didn’t need Sherlock to muck that up as much as he thought, although Sherlock supposed he hadn’t exactly been helpful with matters either - because there wasn’t much other explanation for John to be at such a high-end establishment as this one. 

Or at least, Sherlock didn’t think there was. Perhaps time had changed John Watson in more ways than he could calculate, even with his observation skills. The thought pierced into him and took root, and the disquiet was enough to stop him in his tracks. He stood frozen, watching the man who he had once admitted to be his one and only friend. But that had been then. Would John still see it that way now? Sherlock’s brain scrambled, his body beginning to automate its natural fight-or-flight response for stressful stimuli. Sherlock had always opted for the “fight," but right now, with the one small whispering voice of doubt in his head, he was precariously close to taking the “flight" option. He stood there, watching John, and for the first time in years, uncertain of himself.

He had assuredly caused John enough pain; if he had at first doubted it, he had, in the last forty-eight hours, had substantial evidence from those around him to prove it. How could he begin to apologize, to even try to make up for it? Worse, what if John didn’t want his apologies? Perhaps it had been better to remain dead and forgotten. The rest of the world had - forgotten him, that was - and Sherlock had no reason not to believe John may have as well.

All of this passed through him in a brief second, though time stretched out, molded and shifted, and it felt like another three years had passed between the moment he walked into the restaurant and now. John was sipping his wine. Oblivious, as usual.

Sherlock took a breath, steeled himself, tried to not think about the wetness he could already feel beginning to prick at the corners of his eyes, and willed his legs to move forward.

He breathed in; oxygen going in, cycling through his lungs. He breathed out; carbon dioxide discharging from his system, toxic. The bad being exchanged for the good. 

“John."

But first, you had to have a heartbeat.


End file.
